Not The First Date
by Katta
Summary: The TimeTraveller's Wife fic. A simple trip to the movies isn't so simple when your date is from the next decade.


**Not the first date**

**Saturday, July 18, 1987 (Henry is 32, Clare is 16)**

_Clare:_ I'm waiting for Henry in the Meadow, and I use the time waiting to work through everything in my head, trying to find the most persuasive angle. I refold and stroke the clothes I've chosen for him. Are they too much? Not enough? I remove the tie and stick it in my pocket. It's not like we're going to dinner with the Rockefellers.

I sit down, heart pounding, and force myself to be still. When Henry does appear, I almost jump out of my skin, which clearly surprises him – as it should. After all, how many times have I done this before?

"Is something wrong?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Why would something be wrong?" I pick up the clothes from the ground, and despite the summer heat, my hands feel cold.

He takes the clothes, his fingers closing over mine. "Thanks. Clare?"

"Will you go to the movies with me?" I blurt out.

At first, he simply stares at me; then his mouth starts twitching. "And I thought there was an emergency!"

"It's not funny!" Tears of rage well up in my eyes, and I struggle to keep them down, to be someone he can think of as an adult.

"I'm sorry," he says, but he's giggling while he speaks, which takes away the effect entirely. I sit down, sniffing a little.

He puts on the boxers and pants, and then sits down next to me. "Clare..."

"It's not fair!" I say, and my attempt to act adult is shot to hell with the ramble that follows now that I have opened my mouth. "I'm not asking you to make love to me," though I want it, desperately, "or to meet my friends --" I am still shaken up after the near-miss last time. "All I'm asking is for a _movie_, the two of us together, and I don't see why it has to be such a big _deal_. You can't tell me that you've never been on a date before."

"I've never been on a date in the past before," he says slowly, regarding me with a steady gaze. "And it's not a big deal, except -- are you sure? Right now, I'm old enough to be... well, perhaps not your father, but at the very least your uncle."

"So be my uncle. Be a friend of the family. I don't care, as long as you come."

He hesitates, and I hold my breath – a silly, futile thing to do, but I can't help myself. Finally, he smiles, wide and cheerfully. "How could I resist such an offer?"

"You can't," I say with determination, returning the smile. I think I'm smiling all the way to the movie theater – the swirly feeling in my stomach certainly lasts that long.

"What will it be, then?" he asks. "_Blind Date_?"

I grimace at that._ Blind Date_ seems the kind of film my friends would see with their boyfriends. I could concieve of seeing it on a girl's night out or something, but not today, not on an occasion like this.

"_Snow White_?" Henry teases.

"No!" I say, insulted at the mere idea. I study the film posters. "What's _Jean de Florette_?"

"Oh," he says, "that's one of your favorites." He glances at me and amends, "Will be one of your favorites."

"Terrific," I say. "That's the one."

He doesn't look convinced. "Perhaps you would like it better if you saw it when you're a bit..."

I can tell that he's about to say "older", so I stop him from saying another word by dragging him to the ticket stand. Since he obviously doesn't have any money, I pay for both our tickets. It's less date-like that way, but on the other hand it makes me feel important, paying someone else's way.

We're heading over to the concession stand when suddenly Henry grows pale and grabs my shoulder. I have time to think, _Oh no, not now, not yet,_ before he tells me, stuttering as if speaking hurts (which may well be the case), "I'm sorry, I have to..."

He lets go of me and disappears into the bathroom. For a while, I wait outside, telling myself that perhaps he simply had to use the toilet.

Ten minutes go by. Fifteen. The attendant starts tearing tickets and people go inside. Pretty soon I hear the trailers starting.

This is ridiculous. I step up to a man who doesn't seem to be in too much of a hurry, and politely say, "Excuse me? My friend changed his suit in the bathroom before he went home, and I think he forgot his old one in there. Could you go look for me?"

The man looks a bit puzzled, but he agrees. I lean on the wall, trying to decide what to do with the tickets. It's too late to return them. Should I use mine? If Henry is to be believed, I will enjoy the film.

When the man returns with Henry's clothes, he looks even more puzzled. "They were in a locked booth."

"Really?" I say, feigning surprise. "I can't imagine how that happened."

"He changed his shoes and underwear too?" the man asks. He's starting to sound suspicious now.

"He's persnickety about things like that," I say with a nervous smile.

His eyes narrow, and my mouth goes dry, but what could possibly happen? It's not as if he could guess the truth.

"Is this some sort of sorority pledge test?" he asks.

I give him a wide, relieved smile, thrilled that he has come up with a plausible solution of his own accord. Do I really look like a sorority girl? I shouldn't have thought so, but what I think isn't really the issue right now.

"You caught me," I say. "Sorry. You won't tell, right? I only have this test left before I'm an Alpha Pi... Kappa..."

"Your secret stays with me," he promises, smiling back at me.

I take the clothes outside and lay them carefully on the sidewalk while I tear up the tickets and toss them in the trash can. It wouldn't feel right to give them to someone else, and I don't want my first viewing of a future favorite film to be like this.

I briefly consider taking a vow to never see the film, just to prove Henry wrong, but what would be the point? He didn't make my future happen, it just did. Will.

None of this is his fault, not really.

I'm still furious with him, though.

* * *

**Tuesday, April 11, 1995 (Henry is 32, Clare is 24)**

_Henry:_ For a while there, I really thought I could do it. I had my doubts at first, of course – watching a film at a theater isn't as likely to trigger an attack as a TV program is, but it's not exactly safe either.

Clare was so determined, though, that I wanted to give it a try. We had tickets in the back, near the door, so I could have excused myself if I needed to go in the middle of the movie, without causing much of a stir.

Sometimes I spend days in the past. I really thought – I allowed myself to think – that I could get through a simple movie date, even considering the stress.

It is highly disappointing to wake up in my own bedroom in 1995. I can only imagine what a disappointment it must have been to Clare.

Present Clare is has tousled hair and half-closed eyes, and she gives me a sleepy smile. "Oh, there you are."

I get into bed and kiss her fondly. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"I just got back from 1987. I was going to take you on a date."

"Oh!" she exclaims, and there's a hint of laughter in her voice. "Was that ever a disaster!"

"Mm," I say, a lot less sanguine about it. "I'm really, really sorry."

"Don't be a dolt." She pulls me closer and runs her fingers through my hair. "It was ages ago. Well, for me it was. Anyway, I'm sorry too."

I frown. "For what?"

"For being such a self-absorbed little brat."

"You weren't," I protest. I'm very fond of teenaged Clare, and I don't want anyone to put her down, even if it's Clare. "You were sixteen."

"Still." She yawns and turns over. "And I'm sorry for blowing you off like that."

"What are you talking about? You didn't blow me off."

"Yes I did," she says and gives me a sleepy look over her shoulder. "Oh. Maybe it hasn't happened yet." She pats my cheek. "Well, I'm very sorry for it, whenever it happens."

"Whenever what happens, exactly?" I ask, but she's already dozing off to sleep.

* * *

**Friday, July 24, 1987 (Henry is 40, Clare is 16)**

_Henry:_ I'm in the Meadow, like so many times before, but I'm alone. Is this a time before Clare? It has happened before, but not often – last time was six years ago, when I saw Lucille pregnant. Which baby, I don't know. Most likely, it was Clare, but I didn't get close enough to ask.

There are no clothes, which supports my theory. It's a good thing the weather's warm – it has to be late summer. If I'm caught like this, people might assume I'm an inappropriate sunbather, rather than a complete lunatic.

I approach the house, both to see if there's something to wear and to find out when I am. There is no one outside, but through the kitchen window I can see a glimpse of red hair. I move closer, and sure enough, it's Clare, looking to be in her mid-to-late teens. What on earth...? I do what a lover is supposed to do to catch his girl's attention – scoop up some pebbles and throw them against the window.

She tenses and, after a beat, turns around. At first, she almost smiles upon seeing me, and I give her a little wave. _Yup, I need your help again._ Then her face hardens and she turns her back on me. My jaw drops. There's no question about it; this is a deliberate snub, but _why_? I rack my brains, trying to find an explanation for what's going on. She saw me here, which means this day, whatever day it is, will most likely make it onto the list, which means she knew I was coming.

I run through the dates on the list in my memory. Definitely summer. No earlier than 1986, because she's wearing the blouse she got for her fifteenth birthday. No later than 1989, because she changed her hairstyle a few months before her high school graduation.

Suddenly it strikes me, and I almost burst into laughter. The date. It's August 1987 and she is punishing me for that date that never happened.

"You little bitch," I murmur affectionately, shaking my head. All right, let her have her little revenge. She has already apologized for it, eight years ago, and who am I to hold a grudge for that long?

I give her a last, long look – God, she is beautiful at sixteen – and head off to find some clothes.


End file.
